282 THE BEST OF THE FUN 



Gorse, on the hillside half a mile away and overlooking all 

 that is best and most beautiful of the Belvoir Vale, every 

 hound was in her place ; and it was across this lovely 

 landscape that the chase took its way. As hounds dashed 

 up to the little thicket that has been known and reverenced 

 by continued generations of Meltonians as Parson's Gorse, 

 the huntsman and a strong following elected the lower 

 ground, and cut into the road beneath the covert. It 

 happened that their fox had never entered. Hounds 

 drove on above the upper margin, gradually swinging 

 deeper into the grass field along the crest of the hill. 

 Close in their wake rode a bevy of men, most of them, if I 

 could distinguish aright, clad in unorthodox black, and all 

 of them on this occasion with the turn of fortune's wheel 

 in their favour. First to emerge from that field, and to 

 dash down the steep side of what is known as Hickling 

 Standard — the lofty, tree-topped landmark in which the 

 ridge terminates — was Mr. Parker, a Yorkshireman having 

 his first ride in vaunted Leicestershire, and fortunate 

 enough to have that ride on a 400-guinea hunter 

 belonging to Mr. Russell-Munro (who also, by the way, 

 took his full share of enjoyment from the run). And this 

 advantage he held until the vale was well entered and 

 forces to some degree reunited. Lord Manners' hat was 

 knocked off by a bough as he rose in his wake. Stop for 

 it ? Not much ! There is not a scent like this every day. 

 Nor, with all their well-deserved credit for courtesy and 

 camaraderie, was it to be expected that either Mr. Alfred 

 Brocklehurst or Mr. Bertie Sheriffe should halt in their 

 career to supply the deficiency. One or the other of them 

 did his best by knocking the beaver out of the way as he 

 passed, and down the hill it went rolling like a tambourine, 

 in fitting accompaniment as they plunged downward, too 

 — the ridge-and-furrow awful, and the descent precipitous. 

 It was fair, sweet going on the lower ground, the meadows 

 level, if deep, and the hedges a credit to a vale renowned 

 in song and renowned in story since fox-hunting first came 

 into fashion. Below Hickling village Lord Lonsdale and 

 Lady Gerard came to the head of affairs from the right — 

 (how much, I wonder, had this good gallop to do with 



